Bettina next door feeds feral cats. “ASPCA snips ’em, drops ’em off,” she says. “Catch and release.”
Meanwhile, the intact ones attack my garden. I throw orange peels, coffee grounds to ward them off. They move to the porch.
Max is useless. He barks once at a black-and-white, then turns tail. “Pathetic,” I hiss.
Yesterday, five more glowered at our front door. I force Max out. He’s still gone.
Now I count twelve ferals. A giant orange tom wears a slash of red paint across his mouth like lipstick. Or blood.
I don’t think I’ll go out today.
Day 3 of 31: 100-word Drabbles.
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